


Someone had me live this way

by kaaras



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Philosophy, Psychology, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaaras/pseuds/kaaras
Summary: Soulmate!AU based on the East Asian belief about the Red Threads of Fate, which is also sometimes referred to as the Red Thread of Marriage.Every two people are linked through space with a red Thread that can only be seen by the Soulmates themselves, but every rule has room for exceptions. Charles Xavier is one of them, and he is trying to understand the world around him (and to stay sane doing so), and, as always, help his own like.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. And I cannot get rid of it

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Someone had me live this way [RU]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435441) by [kaaras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaaras/pseuds/kaaras). 



> whew  
> this is a translation of my fanfic originally written in russian, something i've started in august and dumped for no reason. im very glad i got to finish it after so long
> 
> i suspect i won't be proofreading all this anytime soon, so if you wanna help in proofreading, hmu anywhere please: email (ryba.kaaras@gmail.com), DMs if ao3 has those idek im fairly new to this platform

Students of all years were hastily and merrily walking through a university hall. Exams were coming up, and the deadlines were burning brighter than june sun ever did. Irresponsible seniors were clearly heading for the exit, loudly planning their graduation party, while still diligent freshers were anxiously searching for their classroom on the floor plan.

Each one of those hectic humans had a piece of red yarn coming out of their palm, which would lead to, undoubtedly, the most important person on Earth, a so-called Soulmate. And this dear someone is the ultimate person to live a life happily with or (in case something happens) one day die together.

Anyhow, the warm summer mood spread throughout the whole university, and hectic students cared not for the red immaterial strings crossing one another, not tangling, but creating a tight net of red.  
After all, only those who hold the ends of the Thread are able to see it.

Well, except for some extremely rare cases, like that of Charles Xavier, who was casually sitting in the hall, finishing up a rich green apple. This man could see all of the strings of red-coloured yarn flowing through corridors, spreading across the walls, passing through both floor and ceiling, connecting peoples’ hands and fates alike.

He saw all of them, except for one.

Xavier got up from the sofa, had a quick look at the clock – time for another lecture, last one in this year.

Charles was rather young for the professor’s title: visually he could be all too easily mistaken for a senior. To be fair, not too much time has passed: just after brilliantly defending a graduation thesis he accepted the principal's offer to stay at the university and continue on with his research. As a pleasant bonus, he also got to read a semi-mandatory course of lectures on ligology – teaching in Columbia University can’t be bad for portfolio, right?*

Partly, of course, his success relied on the fact that ligology, the study of Threads, was a rather young science compared to others. The hardest part of discovering such new knowledge was to hide his gift that was just too tightly related to his research field.

***

The last lecture was suggesting more of a deliberative approach, so the students asked the remaining questions and shared their thoughts on the phenomena of Threads. Well, ‘students’ is a rather broad word for the people in the lecture room, as one of the professor's terms was that lectures should be open and not fit into the common schedule (Saturday evenings were just perfect for that). An automatic pass after visiting a single lecture out of the whole course essentially made it not necessary for the students to come to the rest of them, so in a room full of listeners only a third of them would appear to be students in the better days. Generally, the knowledge on the study of Threads for most of them lies somewhere near ‘ligo’ is latin for ‘bind’, and the ‘-logy’ part is latin for something like ‘average school subject you won’t ever need in your life’. Charles didn’t blame them, as he still possessed a memory too vivid of his own student years. Nevertheless he was still very glad to see people truly interested in the subject coming to listen.

Now that the broad auditorium, drenched in the hot summer sunshine, was full of people of all ages and occupations, some of them were whispering and giggling, some were listening attentively, taking notes, some were absently looking out the window, yet, as always, everyone had a red Ties coming out of their palm. The ends could meet right there, in the bridged hands of the young Soulmates or the Thread could be stretching all the way through the room right into that open window. Then maybe it’s to end somewhere between the building next to the campus and the other side of the world. Depends on how lucky you got.

Professor was rather curious about the opinions of his listeners – they could see things he as a professor could not: for instance the problematics and the perspectives of this science.

At times he got surprised by the things students brought up: wasn’t often that Charles thought about what would happen if all the Threads would suddenly disappear in one horrible moment. Or a glorious one.

Who knows, maybe in another universe people don’t have any Ties or are unable to see them whatsoever? And they have to determine their soulmates, say, based on their date of birth? That would be just ridiculous: “sorry, you were born when Cassiopeia was shining bright, we really cannot be together”. Or based on their gender? “Sorry, our relationship is completely pointless as we both have penises, I cannot let myself disappoint my opposite-sex parents.” Ideas like these would most probably sell well, might as well write a novel... yup, two solid tomes of drama with some very deep lore: overpopulation, and then there are these thousands of thousands of uncertain lost people...

– Professor Xavier, what is your opinion on people with ‘abilities’, the ones that see others’ Threads and are specia-

– Charlatans, who are just too happy to profit off someone’s inability to see their Thread? – professor interrupted the student. A bit rude, but Charles was just slightly furious at the guy in glasses sitting in the first row, the one that asked such an uncomfortable question.

The guy himself, also known by professor as Hank McCoy, was slightly astonished by professor’s bluntness just like most of the audience. Professor took a deep breath and was now trying his best not to sound irritated:

– It is impossible to prove the presence of these ‘abilities’ in a human, and they don’t have any scientific explanation either. Remember Randy’s prize?** Research in that field _is_ possible, but volunteers are needed, but then once again, who would like to lose their much profitable line of work – Charles shrug. It seemed to him that he succeeded in convincing the audience, though Hank’s eyes were still squinted as he stared at the professor. Then he looked away, and it seemed to Xavier as though he came to an obvious inner agreement to ask again once the lecture’s over. Charles exhaled with subtle relief to a thought he will cross this bridge when he reaches it.

Hank had already gotten distracted from the lecture, in hushed whispers explaining something to a dark-haired girl beside him, but for some reason the weight of a stare wouldn’t leave him. Coming from another corner of the auditorium, it pressured him just a bit, as if... testing. Charles сlearly felt a cold stare on himself, but handled it well, although couldn’t resolve to meet eyes with the stranger, instead ignoring him completely.

In the uncomfortable silence of the room noone dared to ask professor any more questions, so Charles closed the lecture with a summary of the course, warmly said his goodbyes to the audience and wished them all the best. Later, when the crowd thinned out and emptied the room, Xavier stayed to answer the questions of the most voracious, or, more often, those who were too shy to ask in front of the class.

After some twenty minutes after the end of the lecture the room was at last almost empty. Last people were leaving the room, walked by the red light of the setting sun – it almost felt as if it was with its soft rays apologizing for its behaviour. The Threads were weakly shimmering in the light, becoming almost invisible in the glowing red sun. The auditorium seemed to be completely empty, free from the ties of the Threads. It was Charles’ favorite sight.

– And yet, professor… – It seemed that Hank McCoy made a habit of keeping professor after class, but Charles couldn’t deny he was pleased with student’s curious questions, which often did make Charles think. It’s just that this time Hank came a bit too far, further than Charles would want to allow him. Yet.

– I’m going to tell you one thing, Hank. – Xavier in a slightly tired manner brushed his hair, looking at a diligent student. Professor couldn’t remember if this one had missed any of his lectures at all. – I might have known this kind of people, but those who do claim to possess what you might call ‘powers’ most certainly want no more attention to themselves then they already have, especially if there aren’t huge amounts of money involved. And even then you can’t be sure they aren’t fooling you.

Professor stood well against the confident gaze Hank was giving him. Although Charles wasn’t lying, he was only partly true to his words. Not telling everything – and not without good reason. Right?

Hank looked away, unsatisfied and slightly disappointed. Charles gave a quick look to Hank’s left hand – he was slightly twitching the red Thread in his fingers. It lead somewhere beyond the wall, and there into a hand of a woman – or man – who is probably just as restless. Yeah, seems like we have just enough of lost people in our own universe, thank you very much.

– If you’re asking me, I say you don’t have much to worry about if you see your Thread, – Xavier concluded, and, as if he had just remembered something, anxiously clarified: – You see it, right?

– Yeah, yeah, of course… – Hank nodded, as if it was an obvious thing to say. Although Charles did already know the answer, it could have been different. But that, of course, is a topic of our next lecture, and we aren’t going to get ahead of ourselves.

Having given his warm thanks and farewell, Hank headed to the exit. Charles was also gathering his things, as he gave the auditorium the final look – only to notice yet another young man heading in his direction from the furthest rows.

Quickly grabbing his bearings, Charles managed to get a better look at the stranger, who was looking rather strict and presentable. Though, Charles would not want even the most evil enemy of his to sit through a whole june lecture in a tight black turtleneck. Stranger’s gaze stopped on Xavier, and at an instant the latter felt that testing chill. The inner voice, however, didn’t sense any hostility – or convinced itself of that.

Slowly patting the paper files, Charles only caught himself thinking that something absolutely conspicuous is missing in this questionable picture – something vital, something that most obviously was laying on the surface, Charles thought. He most probably spent an eternity looking at how red sun rays were piercing through room’s twilight just to get lost in the folds of the black fabric of stranger’s clothes. Stranger stated softly, bringing professor back to the real world:

– I don’t believe we’ve met, – stranger offered a handshake, – Erik Lehnsherr.

Charles quickly stuffed the damned paperwork into his suitcase and reached out to shake Erik’s hand – the grip solid, the skin dry and stiff, as if burnt by the autumn winds. After some four seconds of an empty gaze Charles shivered as he suddenly _realised_ and, finally, let the man go. With the peripheral vision he was only trying to grasp the single detail that could put everything in its place – but it just wasn’t there.

– Yeah… Yeah, – Charles slowly mumbled, as if slightly confused, only now remembering about the communicative function of the language. (Lord, snap out of it, Charles) He lifted his eyes and introduced himself quickly, smiling: – Charles Xavier, very pleased to meet you. What’s troubling you?

– Can I have some of your time? – Lehnsherr was now looking with slight suspicion, but still very much straight. Now with his right hand he was holding a light felt hat.

Smiling again for no reason at all, Charles nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * moving all the action to New York for the sake of consistency  
> ** a money prize for showing extrasensory abilities is meant here, as it came around the same time


	2. Soft eyes

Fate was a girl around the age of thirteen, younger if judging by the looks, she had red hair and a remarkably lively face with dark mirror eyes.

In flying barefoot leaps she was crossing the canal embankment. The occasional pedestrians walking in the warm summer evening were only moving decorations for her dancing performance, as they paid no attention to her whatsoever. She smelled of hot bitterness and of dry metal, and it felt as though it wasn't the sun getting lost in city towers, but with each of _her_ steps the weather was getting colder.

Charles was observing her dance from across the canal, he watched as her bright dress was trembling in the warm summer wind and as metal of scissors shimmered while she cut the Ties with them. One by one, they weightlessly fell onto the cold pavement stone.

The girl spun across the bridge, and in her dance had almost cut Charles’ Thread, when he softly caught her wrist. She then halted, gave him a quick upside-down look, meeting eyes with him – nothing in them but the slight surprise, that was slowly melting the glass of the green eyes.

Someone bumps his shoulder and hastily excuses themselves – Charles gets distracted, but when he returns to the girl she isn’t there anymore.

Later on he would meet her. Times again. Sometimes on the street, when he would find himself barely walking after another long night, but most often in the subway, when he fell asleep to the train rattling.

He would hear her coming from miles away because of the metal chaotic clicking, and then in an empty wagon she walks through the countless red strings. Then she looks around, as if searching for something- someone, to then sit she would sit opposite Charles and on and on clank with her scissors to no rhythm at all.

The first time she appeared like this was nightmarish – the train wouldn’t stop on any of the stations and there was no _escape_ from her. With nowhere to run he observed, looking for something, a slight detail he just couldn’t catch in the mess of the red yarn. She stared back, investigating him and paying special attention to the Thread that took beginning in his palm. Bloodily-red, probably, soft and thin, maybe – he couldn’t see it even in his dreams, but he knew it was there from the calming burden of the weightless Tie and oh, Charles feared losing this feeling more than he would fear death, and the redhead with scissors _knew_. She looked with interest-but-no-concern, as if reading his thoughts out of sheer curiosity, but without the annoying feeling of presence in his head and the empty metal glance green eyes gave him before. Instead there was a green spark of warmth in her eyes, hidden deep inside of them… though, that may be the work of Charles’ imagination. He knew little about her, but could not ask her anything at all.

He knew little about her, pitifully little, but desperately wanted to help her.

Unlike his ‘normal’ dreams, this girl was nor a memory nor an emotion he had experienced in the past – she was almost like a hallucination or something – sounds unhealthy, but Charles wasn’t at all surprised to see yet another side of his ‘gift’ to manifest itself. Frost warned him of such, and he was foolish to disregard.

At some point he got used to girl’s constant subtle presence. Charles would sometimes catch himself thinking her to _exist_ : commuting with him to the university with a massive bag of textbooks; spinning while trying on a gorgeous emerald dress in a clothes store next to his apartment; sitting alone in a classroom, emptily clanking with her scissors, when he is passing through a corridor.

***

Fate was a girl around the age of seventeen sitting next to Charles at the university canteen. She had a thread of vibrant red coming right out of her palm – and that was the moment he knew that she _was_ real. A real and a very much living teenager was now staring with an anxious panic in her bright green eyes at a guy sitting a couple of tables away from them.

He was sitting all alone at the table, his back to them – his tray laying on the floor next to some broken plates, food mixed with the glass of tableware and bits of his red glasses. He was covering his face with his hands, sobbing quietly. In his right palm one red Thread would find its end, and it was in the palm of the very girl with the rusty scissors that the Thread took its beginning, and oh, _she was afraid_. Charles didn’t need to be neither a psychiatrist nor a telepath to witness the warm liquid fear running through her veins.

As girl in an unsure gesture brought the scissors to her Thread hand, Charles reflexively, just like in their first meet, caught her wrist, alongside with the surprised gaze of the bright green eyes. And in them, a silent question was asked:

– Why?

Well, because.

Because the anxious fiery fear, that boiling fear of losing something she _does not know yet_ , it held so much _life_ within it. So did her now soft green eyes, they were shining now brighter than ever, because she came to life the exact moment she got what was hers.

Her right to have a life outside of this mad circle – and an opportunity to let go of damp metal of scissors once and for all, to never again touch the Threads of others. A chance for happiness even with this guy in the red glasses, for he is alive too, for he is afraid just as much as she is, but with a fear of his own: dry and rough, the kind that leaves behind dense violet stains.

Because it’s time.  
Because she has a right to make mistakes. Because the world can’t deny her – not while Charles is here for her.  
Because this he promises to her: that everything will be just fine, that there is certainly a place for her here, that she will definitely find here both home and peace, if only she makes this step into the void.  
Because one step towards the broken guy, who had a bad day, a bad week, a bad month, a bad life – will be followed by another, and after the second step inevitably comes the third. And after the tenth one it’s not so scary to be afraid anymore.  
Because what’s coming next is the fear of future back-to-back with the fear of the past. Because Life awaits.

Metal clanks – scissors fell on the floor, splitting into halves. The nameless girl moved her gaze to the nameless guy. Not looking on what’s beneath her, as if there truly was an abyss lying under her feet, – a step, two, three, ten – blindly going wherever the Thread leads.

The girl picked the broken glasses up and gave them a long gloomy look, as if that alone could fix the blood-red glass right into its place if she had only looked for long enough. She then silently sat beside him and put her hand around his shoulders. Sitting like this, they probably spent quite some time without saying a word to one another, and after that, maybe, they spent even a longer time talking about whatever Soulmates talk about when they first meet.

Heading for the canteen exit, Charles thought to himself, that he really doesn’t know what actually _do_ Soulmates talk about when their Thread hands first touch.  
Is there a small static when they do, as he once heard? Do they instantly know each other’s names, as he read somewhere long ago? Do they see each other glowing with expensive and clumsy CGI as they show in cinema? He did probably have hopes to know the answer before it’s too late, but tried not to think about it too much. Tried to just live along.

Why?

Well.

In his freezing damp fear of losing something that he _might never know_ , there was _fire_. Fire Charles’ blue eyes were burning with now brighter than the clear summer sky.  
Because he was trying to live the best life of keeping everything but that of his own.


	3. Hard hands

A thread of red yarn flashed below Charles’ feet, but he paid no attention whatsoever and stepped on it, though it existed outside of the ‘physical’ realm anyway. In any other situation he would avoid doing so out of some kind of an unconscious superstition made a habit, a questionable and a suspicious one. Especially for any company of his, though it probably wasn’t often that they suspected something serious: “Can’t be! A childish man trying to step on white tiles only. Pft, professors these days”.

That can’t be, it’s very much impossible – because there is obviously no ‘other’ kind of people – just those who didn’t get their Threads yet, those who are able to see their Threads, and those who have already lost their Threads. Other people – those who See and those who Cut – exist only in adorable childish fairytales, dumb teenage poetry, and overdramatic adult theatre perfomances.

Talking, they in steady steps crossed the main hall, which was now drowned in red stains of dawn, and were heading to building’s exit. To Charles’ surprise, his companion possessed more than surface knowledge on the topic of Threads and even read his scientific research.

– So, you say you can’t see it… – Xavier recapped as he held the door for his companion. The other man nodded, –...but claim that the Thread was not cut?

– Exactly so, professor, – Eric confirmed patiently. His voice sounded as if from a distance, slightly muffled. And Charles knew that this is exactly how one would silence the cutting pain, the kind that gets itself stuck as a tense knot in a throat.

They stopped near the university’s entrance. Charles turned his face towards the chill june wind, straightened the collar of his shirt. Erik stood almost motionless, holding his hat in what probably was his Thread hand. He didn’t look away from Xavier, waiting for the ‘diagnosis’.

Professor had had, of course, met and known well a few of those who lost their Threads. It was rare that they accepted the new rules of the game, more often they would break, convince themselves that they had lost the only right reason to live. Both the former and the latter had to carry the Thread’s tail for the rest of their lives, and it is a loss that cannot be healed – the kind that could never be seen by anyone else, an invisible wound that can never become a scar.

Erik, however, did not carry a Thread’s tail behind him, Charles felt he was just… empty, like he did not have a Thread in the first place – this is quite common among kids, as a person develops to see their Thread only by the time they hit puberty, with rare delays to eighteen-twenty years old. Charles would say Erik to be somewhere around thirty, and that’s him not mentioning how well the ‘young man’ aged.

– I am really sorry- I mean it, – Charles put effort in sounding as empathetic as he could, – but I really can’t help you. It seems like your Thread has not formed for some reason. I have a contact of a great therapist, but-

– You might have heard me wrong, professor, – Erik interrupted him, and Charles had clearly heard Lehnsherr's restrained german accent.

It seemed like Erik did not blink at all, and under the cold and relentless glare Xavier almost felt uncomfortable. Professor blinked rapidly, but wouldn’t dare look away. He was now curious as to which stage of grief Erik is on right now: the brave benial, the blind anger or the pointless losing bargaining.

– It _is_ there, – Erik continued in a tone that would not _hear_ of any doubt in said words. He got rid of the lump in his throat and slightly changed in the voice: – It has always _there_ , but I cannot see it.

The narrow range of options shortened to just denial and bargain. Or… no, that can’t be.

If there is someone who is able to see every Thread existing, there might just be someone who cannot see them at all. Unfair at all and absolutely fair at the same time.

With the thought Charles felt a sting slightly to the right of his heart – a nostalgic, a warm swirling feeling, that was softly heating the system from the inside, silently threatening to consume him in the fire about to start.

But Charles could not help him.

No, no. Too low are the chances and too high the price.

What even _is_ the chance the theory about the Other with an ‘ability’ to NOT see the Threads, being right? And why in that case can Charles not see it?

The only contact of a ‘specialist’ whose judgement Charles did trust, he willingly gave up some couple of years ago – and he couldn’t come back to her.

Really could not come back to her, he had sworn he won’t, and he owed that person a life he is living right now, a life that he can’t even be complaining about.  
And if he had the chance to go back, he would make the same decisions all over again.  
Right?

Finally, he could not play this hand right according to his role: who _is_ this Erik guy to him, appearing out of nowhere with his request repeating that of Hank word for word? Nobody, obviously nobody. Why should he, a professor of some top US university, living a rather fine life without everyone else's problems, help some strangers with their strange business? Why must he, a person with valuable contacts in an emerging sphere, just throw around those people’s trust and break his own promises to them?

There is no such reason.

He couldn’t do it and he wouldn’t do it.

He won’t, will he?

Charles snapped out of it, it’s as if let the time flow again – wind softly slapped him, messing up his hair.

– I… I understand.

These words felt out of place, they were something that really _should_ , but in no way _could_ help. His voice was so full of faith and understanding that there was absolutely no place left for anything else – and any words said in such a voice no longer held any meaning to them.

Charles did believe him – without a back thought that someone could ever lie to him, because it’s impossible to trick someone who sees the invisible, right? Charles believed and Charles trusted, but his trust wasn’t enough.

Erik looked at him, his gaze still metally firm, but now, with the eyes open a bit wider, it seemed as though he was searching for something deep within Charles. And whatever the latter thought on that matter, the glass in Lehnsherr’s look alerted that something clearly bad would happen if he doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for. Despite that, Charles didn’t feel fear or an insufferably desire to _please_ grey eyes.

There was just a feeling of warmth tearing his chest from the inside, and Charles was sure only of one thing.

He knew little about Erik, pitifully little, but desperately wanted to help him.

– Look, I do have a… contact, who could help, – Charles was talking softly, thoughtfully pronouncing every word of his, as if still doubting a decision he just made.

Erik’s face changed from insensitive to interested, though attentive, ready for any catch. After some long seconds, but having not received the continuation of that phrase, he responded in slight confusion:

– Everything has a price.

Charles chuckled and put on a simpler face, let himself tap his companion on the shoulder.

– Oh, don’t let it go to your head, just a game of chess with one boring professor, – Charles caught the first thought that came into his head and decided to hold onto it, thinking it to be… more or less decent. He took a card with his working contacts out of his pocket, and quickly wrote his address on its back side. With a theatrical wink he handed it to Erik: – if you get what I mean. A couple of games and we should be even.

After a sizeable pause, presumably in considering all the new information, Lehnsherr thoughtfully concluded:

– Next Saturday, 8 pm?

– Yes, yes, – Charles nodded seriously after some few moments, making it seem like he was checking his timetable for the set date (not like there’s absolutely nothing interesting to do now that lectures are over), because he obviously did not forget about such an important detail as timing of the meeting. He didn’t, did he?

– We have a deal then. See you soon, Charles, – Erik savoured the last word on his mouth corner pulled up.  
He tipped the edges of his hat in a goodbye gesture and headed for the cab.

– See you, – professor bid his farewell in a just a little too glad of a manner.  
He stared Erik to his cab, thinking that it would be best for _everyone_ if he got to the young man wearing a black turtleneck in the middle of the burning june, and, caring not about someone’s personal space, grabbed him by the collar and told him that to stay outside of this lost in the red yarn world is the best thing that could ever happen to him.

The only reason to not do what would be best, would be because Charles truly did understand why Erik is here. He also better than anyone else knew that the mirror of his eyes could be melt down, he just hoped that there still is a spark there to start the fire.


	4. To showel the garden

The Saturday night had to be over sooner or later.

Charles asked the cab driver to stop before the turn to the unpaved road – he had, of course, slightly missed the turn in the summer twilight. Well it’s the kind of a turn that’s not easily remembered by every map, let alone a mere New York taxi driver.

Throughout the whole year (except for Christmas and the summer holidays) Charles and his sister were renting a cozy flat not too far away from both the university and the cafe Raven worked in. No public transport went from NY to this place, and it would take around an hour or so to get here by car, which Charles didn’t have (nor did he possess a desire or a need for one). Only partly, however, this was the reason the owner visits his estate as rarely as he does.

Charles ran his hand through his hair, took a deep breath of the chilly evening air. There, through the forest clearing, so calm in the windless evening, he went towards the place that he was supposed to call his home.

While walking the kilometer of an unpaved road, Charles was only trying not to doubt the unthought-through promise he gave today. Even the heavy memories floating in the air behind the metal bars of the gate seemed to him like a safe shelter from all the annoying thoughts.

Yeah, guess it wasn’t that smart to leave a whole week of free time only to spend it like this, thinking about the too-factual past and about the too-hypothetical future. Good job, Charles. Top marks.

Behind the creaking metal it was all just too quiet: nothing at all except for the wind rustling in the tall grass, getting itself caught in the foliage of the overgrown bushes, and causing a ripple on the stagnant water of the fountain.  
It crossed his mind that he could put things in order in the mansion. Charles jumped right at the idea, feeling that the energy of his anxiety needs to be guided into the right direction.

The dark oak of the doors squeaked, complaining, as if not recognizing the owner of the house. The sky behind the stained wide window was just slightly brighter in shade than the pitch-black of the dusty mansion. Charles turned the lights on.  
Everything in place. Same old creepy place, tangled in the red yarn. Looked better with the lights off to be honest.

He remembered Raven should have arrived yesterday. He headed for the kitchen on reflex and wasn’t mistaken – she left a short note on the fridge’s door saying “left for H’s, be back 18/14”.  
Monday after next week, then. Charles frowned, a bag of fresh green apples caught his eye.  
If she thought she could succeed in buying him off for a week with just a bag of apples, she was... Quite right.

It’s going to be lonely, but Charles was more or less satisfied with the fact that he won’t have to introduce his sister to his guest, then his guest to his sister, then spend a whole lot of time explaining to the both of them that the situation is not what they think it is and they really don’t have to look sideways at each other the whole evening.

***

Sunday, Monday and Tuesday would pass quickly in all the cleaning and gardening Charles had to do – in three days he did more than he thought he would be able to out of just plain boredom.

A job of a teacher is usually considered to be rewarding, but, once again, not in Xavier’s case. His discipline was rather specific, so there wasn’t much of fresh blood coming into this particular science. Most of the people were satisfied by the level of knowledge on Threads that general education offered. As for the curious minority... They would usually dig the wrong way, they strive somewhere where, with all due respect to one’s aspiration, it was too early to go.  
Not the most rewarding king of a field to work in, tiring to say the least.

Now trimming bushes is a completely different matter, Charles chuckled to himself. The eyes pleased, the mind empty, though... relaxed.  
He’d think that all these things, like looking after the mansion, going out to the city to get groceries once a week and writing his articles because there’s nothing better to do – were just the way he expected to spend his retirement years.

Maybe he would move further in his research and, say, take Hank as an assistant, and they will happily ever after dig into the Threads business, study all the ‘abilities’, their nature and something along the lines.

In such a distant future Xavier would still die alone, leaving behind only a modest contribution to science and a promising apprentice, who will probably be the one to inherit his mansion-slash-research-facility.

Charles had the moment to think of what ~~would~~ could happen if his Soulmate had found him, but banished the almost forbidden thought out of his head. And if the professor hadn’t been walking the Earth the way he had for thirty something years – he would feed himself with these unreal scenarios three times a day. He knew that the warmth of a Thread in his hand could turn out to be a tail of a Thread at any given moment. Who knows, maybe it already did.

Charles was scared to think of this particular outcome. Though he long gave up feeding himself false hopes, he sometimes would allow himself a hopeful glass of tart fiery liquid. Both metaphorical and for dinner – either way, it helped to cope. 

By the Thursday morning Charles let himself damn Raven for leaving him all alone here, because not only the mansion had noone in it to talk to, but it was just _completely_ empty – within two or three miles for certain, that’s not counting the rare cars passing by the windows – not a single living soul. 

In one of the novels Charles held dear a bastard character, sent in their youth to a monastery, in the moments of such silence would suddenly start screaming until someone came running. “Just checking. You never know, right?” – he would tell them, laughing on the inside at their faces, twisted with panic. Remembering this episode now, Charles wasn’t smiling anymore.

In these moments he’d think that the only thing that saved one from the feeling of being _abandoned_ , that comes along with the absolute silence, was the red string of yarn coming out of their hand. An almost physical reminder, that they aren’t _truly_ alone, or, at least, not alone in their loneliness. The visible proof that, whatever you’re going through right now, you’re following the red string to your clear objective, and that’s something to live for.

And Charles didn't have that – just a fleeting, vague sense of direction. Every now and then it failed him, it would waver and shake, pulling his hand somewhere nowhere. This sensation eventually turned from a reliable, encouraging companion into a dead weight dragging him down, but Charles couldn’t let go.

The Threads were coming and going across the space of the mansion, they appeared for brief seconds through the floor, the ceiling and the walls, fleeting, like the headlights of the cars passing by the windows. If it wasn’t for them, Charles would swear that the time in the wooden halls flows especially slowly, like the pine resin down the spruce wood, if it doesn’t stop at all, setting into a dark, dim amber.


	5. A deep whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's the last of the flashbacks i swear

The girl with the white hair got caught.

She stood near an open fridge, nervously examining its contents, as if looking for one of her toys, in desperation searching in the most impossible places.

– Hey, what are you doing here? – twelve-year-old Charlie interrupted the silence of a dark kitchen. Noticing the girl of his age, he lowered the baseball bat that he had originally clumsily in both his hands rather for the looks of it then for the sake of hitting anyone, really.

The girl hesitated, clearly caught by surprise. She closed the fridge door with a slam and stood up, then she made a steady step forward. Examining Charlie with confidence, she answered, as if nothing out of order was going on:

– Looking for you.

Only then Charlie noticed a small detail: a thin string of red yarn was coming out of his hand. Trembling, it ended in the girl’s outstretched hand.  
Charlie’s heart skipped a couple of beats and was beating faster. He felt a slight sting in his temple, a feeling of presence, and inside him, distrust and common sense was fighting with hope, so light and intoxicating.  
He frowned, clenched his teeth and asked again, full of determination, but slightly confused:

– Who are you? What do you need?

The girl lowered the gaze of the brown eyes, and made her open palm into a fist. A string detached from Charlie’s palm and was slowly returning back to the girl’s hand.

He could have sworn he had seen it with his own eyes, but wasn’t sure if he was ready to believe that he is not the only one… Different.

The only thing he was sure of was that he wanted to help her very much, and that he probably couldn’t deny the feeling.

And he let her inside his home. Promised it would become a home for her too.

And so the girl with the white hair got caught, and she unknowingly tied herself to him for another dozen years. Just for the sake of being there, just to be a living proof that Charles is not alone.

Oh, Precious Raven, a lot of time – a shameful much in fact – will pass before you will come to understand that, able to wield minds but not Threads, you can tie people to yourself, yourself to them, but never _actually_. That you will not accomplish a real home this way no matter how much you would be willing to pay. That if someone let you in, sooner or later (and trust me, rather sooner than else) it’ll be time to go.

Little Raven, it will be too late by the time you realise that pets like you are best kept on a short leash, otherwise they just get in the way. That they won’t be _allowed_ too much, and that with their loyalty they pay back for a promise of food and shelter, not freedom. The girl with the white hair, the dog wouldn’t have become the man’s best friend, if she lived for at least half as much as the man does.

***

Ever since Charles’ acquaintance with Raven he had on several occasions asked himself if there is any reason at all for him to keep her in here. Sure, she is like him – she is Different, but they aren’t as few as it might seem at first.

She was a good conversation, the best (and probably the only one he had) friend and she really did become a sister the little Charlie never had. She kept her secrets well, and his even better. She trusted few and rarely, but with a lot.  
She was always there, and she helped him not to feel abandoned in the world where everyone’s got someone of their own.

Speaking of which, pets don’t have Threads either.

Charles really could have simply gotten himself a cat or even a dog, since there’s plenty of space to walk one.  
But his house would not become a true home to neither cat nor dog, just like it really didn’t become one for Raven. The cat doesn’t know any better than the life on the street, the dog doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s rude to compare his sister to a pet, Charles thought, but it _is_ fair to draw a comparison between her and a little bird taking too much time to leave the nest.  
The dog, the cat and the bird, all of them knew their ‘current’ way of living to be the only right one, but in fact there were just so many more _possibilities_.

It’s just that the more Charles thought about that, the more he realised that she could probably use some time off... without him. A vacation of sorts.  
She needed to see clearly the landscape outside of the nest, without his annoying voice guiding her with all the unimportant directions and unuseful notes. The voice couldn’t be guiding her for the rest of her life, could it?

She was the first one he ~~helped~~ wanted to help.

The first one who willingly and unknowingly became a prisoner of his favor. The first one he had promised something to. Something she couldn’t have completely consented to.

Charles did not blame Raven – not in any way – she was younger, she couldn’t not trust him, could she? If Charles did blame anyone at all, it would be himself – for being in oblivion, for a dozen of years of ignoring one important detail.

Oh, dear Raven, when will you realise that it’s time for the little crow to spread her wings and fly away from the nest? That even in a nest of rare birds you can be unwelcome, that there’s a time when it’s too late to leave even your very own home?


	6. A secret

Thursday was saved by a foray into the city of lights for the essential products. It’s not that it was rare for him to buy something apart from whiskey and apples in grocery stores, not at all, it’s just that he had completely forgotten in all the domestic inquiry that he actually _does_ consume something else sometimes.

Friday was brightened up by a new issue of the scientific magazine he was getting by mail. Nothing of too much importance: a few obvious theories proven, some minor sociological discoveries made, a couple of names printed for the first time – always a good sight. Professor didn’t quite remember what else he had been doing that day apart from examining the articles, but for once it was quiet and peaceful in his heart: the chores done, the Saturday... still ages away.

On the Saturday morning Charles agreed it was time to pull oneself together. He had indeed done so, but a few hours later, having slipped back into sleep – by sometime around noon he had woken up in cold sweat (“Oh no, did I sleep through it?”) and jumped out of the bed. That’s a promising start.

Still, the hasty preparations for the guests visit did serve as a great distraction from the creeping thoughts on all the unnecessary drama he was ready to start between himself and Raven. In the rest of the day Charles managed to get himself to look presentable, finished the remaining bits of cleaning and then made himself presentable just once again to be sure.

The fireplace was creaking softly with the oak logs (the night strangely cold for this time of the year). Charles was blowing the dust off of the chess set that’s been successfully recovered only at the last moment, when he heard the knock on the door. Oh the clock above it, the hour hand had just passed eight hours. 

– Coming, – he loudly announced, putting the set off onto the chess table in the center of the room.

Charles came up to the door and freezed for a couple of moments, picturing how behind the door someone patiently stood rocking from heel to toe, examining the stone pattern of the masonry. Xavier had also just remembered he didn’t just invite someone over for tea and small talk, but for a discussion on sensitive personal matters and, in fact, to give answers, which the professor... didn’t yet have.

Well, guess he will cross that bridge when he gets there. Cross it, tear it apart, break it to pieces, burn it the hell down or, maybe, leave it untouched and complete as it were – regardless, all of that only after he reaches it, not a second earlier. He’s suddenly too drained to think even two lines ahead. He simply opened the door.

– Good evening, – Charles greeted his guest in a tone probably more welcoming than these walls had ever heard.

The wayward man was still wearing the mourning black among the absolutely everloving green summer – and though Charles had no complaints on how the turtleneck highlights one’s figure, a thought that Erik might actually be mourning someone had crossed his mind. Now that would be the worst possible timing for a foolish professor to invite him to play games, wouldn’t it?

– Come on in, – “be my guest”, almost added professor, “make yourself at home”, nearly blurted out Charles. Having stopped somewhere in between, Xavier had but a vague understanding on who he was supposed to be to this not yet familiar, but somehow… understandable person.

Erik followed, and, looking impressed only out of sheer politeness, it seemed like he didn’t really know what it was that he was looking for in the professor's private property.  
Xavier, the responsible host he was, decided to leave as little time as possible for the comprehension of the situation for both himself and his guest. He moved on to the living room, with a gesture inviting his guest to follow him.

Sometime later Charles’ listing of the contents of his rich for all kinds of alcohol cellar was stopped by Erik somewhere after vermouth. While the host was organising the drinks (and, less successfully himself), his guest made himself comfortable in one of the chairs and began to put the pieces on the desk.

The game of chess went alright, though quietly, and it felt like the time was flowing slow. Pieces were leaving the battlefield one by one just to be joining emptying glasses on the table. Charles would admit that he could almost feel at peace, that is, of course, if he only could lift his eyes from the check pattern.

– Professor? – Erik reminded of his presence.

– Yeah, yeah, sorry, caught up in my own thoughts, – Xavier admitted as if not completely hopeless and confused. Having finally made the prolonged move, he took a small sip, wetting the throat. Too nervous. – This problem that you experience, if it, of course, is not a dead end situation, and I, say… do have a reason to believe that there’s someone who could help…

– I was just going to comment on how I find myself rather surprised that by ‘a game of chess’ you actually meant playing chess, but please do continue.

– Right... – Xavier delicately dodged the reminder on his unthought-through “if you get what i mean”, which indeed appeared to be completely out of place. He might have overreacted a bit, happens to the best of us, right?

Charles lifted his eyes at the wrong time – just right when his opponent was done making his move, – he wouldn’t be able to evade locking his eyes with Erik’s. The latter was patiently examining, though Lehnsherr’s tone was calm, interested and not at all annoyed. Charles wasn’t sure if it was alcohol affecting him already or just the time flowing so slowly, but he would think this to be more stressful on him than it _is_ now. Odd, yet too early to triumph. The host made another move and filled his glass anew, looking at his guest with a silent question in his eyes – he did not appear to mind.

Charles took another deep sip of the tart whiskey and slightly pulled the collar of his pale-blue shirt. He caught himself thinking that some ice would be just the thing, but couldn’t allow himself to get distracted from both the game and the talk even for the sake of this small detail. Though details were the key.

He wanted to get the part of their talk where he speaks too much and too honest over with:  
– You are seeking help regardless of your Thread people, probably even that of these special people with ‘abilities’. That is understandable and, in fact, totally normal, a lot of people do. Now the only reason I denied the guy before you, but kindly invited you to my very house is because _that_ guy _did_ have a Thread and you do not, not at all, not even a tail of a Thread cut, it’s just not there, – Charles made a sizable pause, checking if he’d forget anything, – and if I can’t see it, there’s not much to do.

As Erik was listening in a most careful manner, he didn’t appear neither puzzled nor surprised, which, to admit, almost hurt Charles’ feelings. His ‘ability’ was the kind of a detail he prefered to keep private, one could ask for appreciation of the trust they put into another, right? Although the professor could have expected this, since Lehnsherr had indeed read the professor's thesis, thus making the impression of a man well-read and generally intelligent.

– I see, – Erik simply replied. He slightly raised his brows, and having moved a piece across the desc, concluded: – you can see them, but not your own.

– Hmm? – Charles had almost choked either because of the bold move his opponent just made or of the last words he just said. Charles’ heart skipped a bit: Erik couldn’t be… could he?

– Just a wild guess, really. Just a reminder: you allow guests on Saturday evenings in a massive mansion with a good cellar. Cheers, – Erik raised his hand in a thankful toast, taking a sip of vermouth.

– Fair enough, – Charles nodded, admitting to his lack of foresight.

His heart restored to its normal rhythm: he felt rather relieved Erik does not get to bear his burden. It’s not a matter of ‘privilege’ unshared that some think having an ‘ability’ is, but, nevertheless, ‘being Different is something you must deal with alone’. Frost shared with him some good advice, but it was only with time that Xavier understood and put together the scattered bits of it.

It was also clear where some misunderstanding might come from in his wording (after all, maybe it was more convenient to have Raven home). To think of it, Charles wasn’t that lonely or dissatisfied with his personal life, him being in his late twenties, decent shape and sharp wit. In the modern world it wasn’t so hard to find someone careless enough about their Thread, though it is harder to _stay_. Charles reminded, moving a piece across the desc:

– But it was you who suggested the time.

A black piece was removed from the desk, and in its stead a white one was put, partly repealing the aggressive attack.

– True. And it was you who accepted.

Move. White king, now defendless, was in serious danger, however, he did have ways to retreat. That is about four turns ago, as now most of those who had been protecting their ruler, were resting next to the battlefield.

– Checkmate, – Erik stated the obvious, slightly spinning the empty glass in his fingers.

– Well played, – Charles admitted. He was slightly biting his lower lip out of shame. Miscalculated, overlooke, _allowed_. Nevertheless, the game ended in a spectacular manner, although quicker than Charles expected it to. – Another round?


	7. The water to feed it

Charles had easily accepted the duty of keeping track and taking care of the amount of alcohol in their glasses, restraining himself from even taking a peek at the time. Erik gave up his original idea to give in in the next game, but did allow himself to tell about himself a bit more than just “Erik Lehnsherr”.

They had been talking, changing topic by topic, while the fireplace was going out of heat, the glasses – of liquid and the desk – of pieces.

At some point they agreed on Threads being a rather strange concept.

Charles would sometimes think that there’s more cons to Threads than pros. They restrict one, narrow their love (and not just that) interest down to literally one person – that, of course, being ‘The Soulmate’ – and there’s _so_ many people out there.

What are those whose Threads end somewhere across two oceans supposed to do? How are they to live with this feeling imposed by society that one _owes_ , something to their very distant dear Soulmate? Most people can’t leave everything behind just for the sake of a blind search, just to venture out into this potentially endless adventure.

What are whose Threads are cut, the lives of their Soulmates over, supposed to do? How are they supposed to live with the knowledge that they won’t ever get a second chance? Most people can’t let go of their betrothed, they can’t live not mourning.

Erik agreed that it’s not fair, not rational to have only one single Soulmate for their one long life. He was sure that it’s impossible for the same person to remain dear to someone for half a century, because there certainly will be both arguing and cheating even if you two are tied just because of some mysterious reason (or even a mistake). Who even was it that said that it’s relative souls that are tied? There are plenty of unhappy yet ‘connected’ people – what is the point of the Threads then? A bad joke of a higher being? Not funny, thanks.

Charles only wanted to tell him that he will know once he finds his Soulmate. Wanted to, but realised that it’s not even a valid point, but a hope he had, and one of his own, the kind that gets more dim with each day lived through. The kind that wouldn’t have stood even against the testing sceptical look of transparent grey eyes.

– Erik Lehnsherr, you had originally come here to seek advice exactly regarding your Thread issue, – Charles theatrically reminded instead, and, having made another move, returned to his usual tone, – and with that, my friend, I can still help.

– Oh, professor, I had originally come here upon your invitation to, quoting, play “a game of chess with one boring professor”, – in a countermove Erik parried and, predicting his opponent’s reaction, continued, spelling out each word, savouring: – “if you get what I mean”. End of quote.

Charles lowered his gaze down on the chess board, where white king still had ways to retreat, as everything was under his control. Xavier also had some ways to retreat of his own, of course. About a glass ago, he would guess.

– And with that I can still help, my friend, – Erik casually ‘reminded’, his mouth corner pulled up again.

Charles wouldn't respond. He returned his eyes to the pieces of wood, contemplating. The only thing he wanted more than to rise up to the provocation, was to resist it.  
You cannot escape the battlefield in the middle of a game without losing, white king in a dark-blue cardigan, and you cannot yield just yet, which means you are to fight until the end.

– “A couple of games, and we’re even”, – Charles concluded thoughtfully.

Erik squinted for a second, then, as if casually, got distracted by empty glasses and had hospitably fixed this mistake. Xavier let out a small grin, but during the rest of the evening neither one of them had had a single sip.

The evening had to be over sooner or later. Either way they both knew that in the stupid world they live in, a world where everyone has someone of his own, among all the tied people they are not going to get another chance of meeting another a person who would understand their concerns gererally and their needs specifically.  
Charles had realised as much, though he hesitated, and the first one to give up was Erik. He was making small mistakes, making moves lightly – and bringing an obvious checkmate to him in a dozen moves did not bring Charles no joy at all.

Xavier with silent accusation looked first onto the black king, which was in a careless motion of Erik’s hand knocked down onto the chessboard, and then on his opponent, who went around the chess table and stopped next to Charles’ armchair.

The evening had to be over, and rather sooner than later. And than later, with the conversation dragging both of them... rather now, with the mind hot after an unfair game, and body slightly aching of anticipation and intensity.

Xavier rose from the chair and was immediately on an improperly short distance from Erik’s face. Lehnsherr smelled of the vermouth wormwood, spirits and – just slightly – sweat from under a black turtleneck. Oh, fool.

Charles was trying to bury the feeling of _wrong_ and unfairness, because he sincerely did not want to ‘steal’ Erik from his Soulmate counted days before their fate is clear. Erik wasn’t realising his _value_ to that significant human, he refused to even think about that person. Probably for good reason. They weren’t trying to find him, hence why they didn’t, they weren’t trying to be found by him and they weren’t – where are they, when Charles is right here?

Charles lightly caressed Erik’s cheek, as if trying the skin to the touch. He softly touched the other’s lips – dry, slightly cracked. Charles was playing better, he was more contained than his opponent – and Lehnsherr’s left hand, going for the neck to deepen the kiss, was caught by Charles’ right. Almost a reflex. Not here, echoed in his head, and Charles confidently led him up the stairs to the second floor, towards the bedroom – the steps light, the pace fast, as fast as he could to not _run_. Because he couldn’t run, because the only time to run is in when retreating.

Everything seemed empty and pointless, but, nevertheless, dragging him down and slowing him, no matter how hard Charles would try to leave the ballast of the Thread behind. Not even that of his own – the Erik’s Thread – where did the generosity come from, Xavier?  
Why, throughout the solid thirty years that you honor the Earth with your presence, not once before were you concerned about the Thread of someone who has consented? If you doubt and worry someone else’s decisions (made if not in a sober mind, but in advance), then, really, there’s no need.

Charles flinged the door open and let inside the bedroom a companion, a stranger, an opponent, a partner. Not bothering to get the lights, he shut the door as soon as he had entered. Because who and why would ever need the light, if the most important orienting point now was at a distance less than that of a kiss, and the bed was obviously waiting right in the middle of the room?

He thought that it’s something else – he was afraid, though not even for himself. Rather, not _only_ for himself – he was about to share that fear of his with someone else – the fear for something he _might never know_ – with someone who, just like him, has not met their Soulmate and might never do so; with someone to whom each new time is like the last one to be. _In it_ there was something very desperate, something from what he would want to run – to break, to burn all of his own and leave untouched everything of the other, because it might still work out for the both of them, because both of them still had ways to retreat. There always were ways to retreat.

They were somewhere before the stretched dark cotton, before the cardigan, tossed out of the way somewhere into the dark (just the sight of it was disturbing and distracting him the whole evening). They were long before scents of the soft wormwood and that of firm malt mixed together, they were long before the rushed, almost hungry movement of hands under the black turtleneck and long before an accidentally torn shirt button fell to the floor. They were long before all the belts, socks, boots and other stupid inventions of the tied world.

The world of confused people that would never understand _them_.

Because the world had completely _forgotten_ , and everything was, in its point of view, a routine, a predestined one. Because all the people knew what tomorrow brings – and tomorrow brings nothing but the plain predictable world, as tangled in Threads as ever. Who needs this tangled, restrictive world?

They would never be understood here.

No one will ever understand why it’s so important to feel the muffled gasps with one’s dry slightly cracked lips, why it’s so important to feel one’s own burnt by wind fingers in the just slightly damp chestnut hair.

Would certainly not understand how the sky-blue eyes fit within the hungry fire of a blue star and how glass-grey eyes melt, staring deep into the flame, but never looking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is probs going to take me a while, cuz if this was the climactic point for the action, the next will be that of emotional bs for main character, so bear with me u_u


	8. The season of going

Charles woke up early, having slept for some few hours at most. He was probably woken up by a ray of sunlight, which had found its way through the morning mists and ran down his cheek, stopping on his closed eyelids, blinding him. Or maybe it was the disappearance of a weight of a shared in a windy night blanket that did. Having turned away from the window, Xavier still refused to open his eyes, as if it would stop the sun from rising above the horizon.

He damned the planet’s rotation around its axis. He would want the curtains to shut, he would want them to never let the june warm rays in again – not because he was exhausted morally and wouldn’t mind getting another couple hours of sleep, but because he wanted to hold onto this moment, trapped under his eyelids, he wanted to freeze within it and never open his eyes again.

Because he was tired of seeing people run. To admit, he was terrified. His heart was pounding.  
Even if he would open his eyes, there was noone left by the morning, and Charles decisively didn’t want any of that. He only wanted to stay in this calm otherworldly moment with the cosmic fire under his eyelids, never caring about anything else – he wanted never again to have to wake up in the empty bed with messy sheets, with _only his_ clothes scattered around the room and only _their_ ghosty scent of cherry, malt or bitter wormwood stuck somewhere in his throat.

Because he was tired of running. Just exhausted. It seemed like the muscles around his eyes ached from how intensively Charles kept his eyes shut. They were slowly getting wet under the eyelids, the salt stinged somewhere in the corners of the eyes. A torture, but he wouldn’t open them. He felt as though he haven't slept for the last decade, but he couldn’t remember what he’s been doing that whole time. He didn’t remember anything clearly, only a ten thousand times when he, drowning in white sheets, was drifting into sleep – alone or else – just to wake up and run, run, run again.

Because he was tired of being scared as well. Somewhere behind an eyelid wall, impenetrable by the sun, the sky-blue eyes could burn with damp metal fear – and although with it they shined brighter than any clear june sky – this fear inspired Charles no more than a hunting dog would inspire a rabbit. Was there any sense left in his endless running? How much more will he last? Is it worth condemning oneself and everyone around you to this cycle of suffering?

Charles recollected himself only when he heard the bedsheet tear in his clutch. He lied there, huddled up and as if not breathing at all – the only life sign he was showing was the loud heartbeat.  
The misty sun ran down his back – from the pseudo-warm stab in the back made Xavier shake, bringing him back into the real world. He was not ready, but when he unconsciously opened his eyes, it was already too late.

The only thing more scarring than finding empty fabric instead of a partner missing, was to see them here, beside him. Erik wasn’t asleep – for a while, probably – and made himself comfortable under the blanket, with his attentive grey eyes observing Charles. The latter would probably think that it was as if with tenderness, if only he hadn’t taught himself out of such thoughts.

Xavier had once again closed his eyes, now sleepy smiling. That came out forced, almost intimidated, but he would lie if he said that didn’t feel vulnerable with the basic blanket stolen, the curtains pulled back – but there was something _to_ this very fragile moment of quiet that got caught in the wrinkled bedsheet. Something that’s going to break from an awkward dialogue, unnecessary touch, unintended gasp.

Charles was only trying to not count seconds in his head. He was thanking generously-patient Erik for every moment he for some unclear reason didn’t disturb his cut-glass morning tranquility.

An infinite count of seconds wasn’t over, and Charles’ heart hadn’t completely calmed, when he drifted into sleep again.

***

In about a couple of hours Charles woke up again. He didn’t feel well rested, but being woken up by a sour scent of cheap coffee definitely set a better mood for the day – better than the smell of the dense anxiety did anyways.

Charles stretched, arching his back. Erik was sitting on the bedб his back to the headboard. Between him and Charles a wooden tray rested, and on it, a cup of a suspicious drink suspected to be coffee – still steaming. Lehnsherr didn’t care enough to put on his turtleneck (or any clothing at all), but out of all the irrelevant complaints Xavier could possibly have, this one would be the least convincing.

– I could only find powdered, – Erik commented, noticing the movement to his side and a surprised look oh the cup in his hands.

After allowing himself to cover at least a small bit of himself with a blanket, Charles lifted on his elbows and thankfully nodded before giving this liquid excuse for a drink a taste. Out of sheer politeness if he’s to be honest, but even a person as important as professor Xavier couldn’t deny the aesthetics of the moment.

Another sip of low-quality coffee was burning Charles’ insides, but in the redisal warmth, the fragile sensation of _calm_ echoed, and it was almost louder than the throbbing pain at the temple after his yesterday’s irresponsible drinking.

He set eyes on Erik’s hands – did he notice Erik has remarkable hands? Charles spent about half an eternity, regarding the way Erik was holding a cup of hot coffee perfectly still with his fingers. Then his eyes moved on only to notice how from the middle of a palm no red Thread is going anywhere.  
It was rather pleasant to be reminded about the damned existence of Threads like that: only after a rather long line of thought, not immediately after opening your eyes.  
Moving his gaze up the left hand, he stopped on the forearm, and to be more exact – oh – on a tattooed number, faded and slightly blurred. Charles made too big of a sip of coffee, but didn’t seem to mind the burning inside of his throat.

If his slightly hungover memory serves him well, prisoners wore such ‘serial numbers’ Auschwitz. Too bad is the ink for it to be a complete tattoo, too good of an impression Erik has made to be… for it to be anything else.  
That set of facts was followed by simple maths only in a faint hope to be mistaken: if Erik is a slight bit older than himself, then his childhood falls on the war times. The last straw was a subtle german accent Charles had first noticed a week ago.

All of this wasn’t bad and it obviously wasn’t good – it was painful, terrifying, traumatic and, most importantly, over.  
Charles understood full well that it's best not to bring up these memories in Erik’s mind.

He also knew that a problem’s solution often lies within its root. Knew from… first-hand experience that the root might as well have been a childhood trauma.  
Maybe after all this ‘problem’ of Erik can turn out to be a ‘power’, just like Charles’, only working the opposite way.

Charles’ ‘gift’ had manifested itself in the moment of his childhood when he particularly wanted to understand the reason of violence in his family – and his wish was granted, but the price was paid as well. Hooray! He had gotten the proof he so desperately wanted, the proof that changed absolutely nothing. But for this empty, childish desire to prove, for his childish impatience Charles paid in full with all of his conscious life.

Mythical ability to see others’ Threads instead of one’s own was historically sugar-coated and generally romanticized. And the blind majority would want to be in his place, while Charles regretted that Fate offers no refunds for her gifts.  
And at first he was angry: with her, with the world, with himself. Then he tried letting go, but it’s not easy to let go of something that is constantly surrounding you like a pale-red mist. Though with time he even learnt to suppress it – the fog gets under his eyelids, becomes stuck in the corner of his eyes. Xavier made a step, two, three, ten – walks, patient, constantly rubbing his bloodshot eyes – but the immaterial strings _bind_ , and Charles physically stumbles over them – nearly falls. Having lost the pace he runs, runs for his life, not making out the red road. He is running like he had never ran before and like he’s been going his whole life. His arms extended forward, Charles is fighting with blood his way through the bloodily-red Threads: the treacherous bloody tears covering the red web of strings.

Charles in this delusion would see Erik leave a trace too, but a different one – thin, though, dense – such kind follows an open wound, one that for some reason cannot heal. Maybe its owner refuses to stop and rest, to let a bleeding wound close.  
From Poland on a train to Germany, from there a plane into the States, later, disappointed, once again back to his homeland – and again to the States: a direct flight to New York to fly half the world to a stranger professor from a sophisticated scientific article. Lehnsherr walks, dedicated, walks till he bleeds just for the sake of this faint hope.

Instead Erik could’ve stopped to adapt and live among everyone like everyone, differing only in a hidden scar on the chest. He could have – it _is_ possible, and ask Charles how goddamn hard it is. But, oh, wouldn’t Charles know that nor himself nor Erik would not last long with their metaphorical open wounds, no matter how hard they tried not to look back on the sticky trace they are leaving behind?  
Wouldn’t Charles know, that the only thing that chops one’s back better than the damp metal, the only thing that cuts one’s chest deeper than the dry wind, are the intangible scarlet Threads slicing the human flesh?

Oh, the black king in a black turtleneck, Threads wouldn’t be of such a vibrant red color, if there wasn’t someone’s blood on them.

This wasn’t good or bad: either way the Threads were a vital attribute of the world around them, and for someone to have an easier time finding their Soulmate someone is, probably, never to find one for themselves. Unfair at all and absolutely fair at the same time.

Charles blinked in confusion. He really didn’t know how and what he was feeling: all of his thoughts rushed in completely wrong directions, and he was infinitely missing something.

On a Sunday morning even after a good Saturday release – _especially_ after a good Saturday release – it felt right to be feeling empty and left.  
The sunrays claw his back, reminding him that today brings nothing but the vain attempts of warming himself with a cup of grain hot coffee: premium quality, rich and aromatic, but so very... insipid. If his guest didn’t leave by the morning then she (or he) will surely do so by noon. Then the sun will be zealously forging through dense foliage and with the distinct accusation it would coldly blind Charles, escorting his guest out.  
Every lonely morning was to end in a regular, typical manner, but each time a bittersweet aftertaste stayed. It would be a blunt lie to call Charles Xavier a bad lover, but the tied world cared not: each time it relentlessly pulled back by the thin strings of red all those who had somehow crossed paths with the professor.  
That’s right, pulled them back by the Threads.

Charles frowned and looked at Erik’s hands, making sure that both of them are still ‘empty’. He for some time was still staring at his cup of what was left of the coffee, and only then seemed to remember something.

Each not-lonely night a contrastively lonely morning followed. Not today though. Now Charles saw that the feeling was a self-imposed one.  
Erik could not be pulled back into the tangles world – because Lehnsherr, in fact, never belonged to it.

Erik was yet to find his Soulmate. In case, of course, the professor generously hands him a win. Just like that, no reward asked in return – they played some chess and woke up in the same bed – how many _were_ there and how many _will_ there _be_?

The crystal glass calm, that would each not-lonely morning slip away from Charles’ grasp, was now _within reach_ – just a black piece on the white side of the board.

But cards were meant to be played, and pieces aren't to be thrown around like that, even when you are not playing nor cards nor chess. Just like cards and pieces, facts could be played so that everyone would be well, and noone has to know all the tactics and details, right?

This little white lie would be just too easy to not take advantage of it. Noone would ever need to hurry, noone would ever need to run from the past or the future.

That decision, of course, was entirely up to Charles.  
He did not hold anything against Erik, as he only wanted what was best for the both of them even after a brief acquaintance of theirs. Deep down with his mind he had already known that they would blend together perfectly, and with his body – oh – the feelings echoed that they would fit each other just _perfectly_.

Xavier realised that taking such a responsibility upon himself is harder than it may seem the moment he understood just how hard.

All the remorse will turn into the same cold summer sun that burns, reminding him of his very human fears. Later the fear of a mistake will with damp rough wines bind his hand and foot.  
And he was already feeling it spread through his system: there, he shivers as the white seed of a lie is sprouting out between the shoulder blades – it’s is growing upwards, repeating the line of his spine. Wines are tangling his whole body, leaves are covering it with a thin white husk. The tight pale skin covers him, it doesn’t let him make a move that could give away his little secret, the one Charles allowed himself a couple of years ago.

Later on he could tear this bleak husk – just stop lying while it’s not too late – but it would be too late already. Erik would not forgive, and he would leave him, he would most certainly leave. Charles lied to him.  
Or later on he could live this lie on for another half a century, letting his second skin grow layer by layer until it becomes an impenetrable shell, the kind in which it’ll be too hard to breathe. Erik would notice, and he would leave him, he would most obviously leave. Charles changed.

But this year, two, three, ten years Charles would be willing to hand over to Erik just like that.  
Because he didn’t have anything of his own, not anymore: nothing but the violent morning sun, that now hid behind the early mist, that had now left him completely unalone in this damned unempty bedroom.  
Because (without his help) there wouldn’t be anything of the other’s left sooner or later: nothing but the endless running. Nothing but the dense red trace left behind, as if a bright red string of yarn following the running figure as it’s not making out the thorny path.

Charles wanted to help Erik, and he wanted this to be his final attempt to help anyone at all, though noone ever asked for anything he was so very generously giving to them.

Their ‘normal’ life (the kind that _people_ live) would begin right after a well-prepared monologue of his:  
–...Just like this case of yours: when you went through a stressful time, and you closed up, thinking this may save you in a similar situation in the future, you cut off or simply ‘unsaw’ a connection to your Soulmate. Since I cannot see it, neither would this colleague of mine, and I was... I’m not in a position to ask her for help.

Erik would be listening attentively and silently, distrusting at first. He’ll learn. Charles’ voice won’t tremble, he isn’t even lying, right? He couldn’t go to Frost, he promised he wouldn't.

All of that doesn’t matter now: they had the mornings ahead of them, the ones with the cliche fried eggs, the crappy powder coffee (somehow they preferred it now), and rather warm than hot nights under a blanket too small for two, yet so... comfortable.

And then, when the time comes – the one with the scar on his left forearm will learn the last truth – the heritage of the liar, his last way of retreat – a business card of someone who didn’t do charity but unlike some was not only able to help, but also knew how to.


	9. And to everyone knowing

Somewhere between the dragging real _honest_ existence and the plain desired life in a white lie, one obstacle remained, one chess piece, that brought the whole perfect setup to nothing: Charles wanted to help Erik more than he wanted to help himself.

And he knew that he had to set things right at least this one time, no cheating. Do as he was asked to.  
It was hard for Charles to neglect what seems now to be, though unfair, the only valid chance for a happy life. He had to do what he promised at least for once.

For Charles time hands heavy. The sense of reality betrays him too, as in the wide space of the room he is disoriented and lost, blinded by the bright cold sun — but his physical movements are sharp and almost automatic. He was looking at his own hands as if a thick layer of dim glass was in the way: it felt as if it was someone else’s hand reaching out to the cabinet next to the bed, as if it was someone else who opened the drawer, and definitely not Charles’ nails that were tapping on the edges of the snow-white cardboard of a business card.

Left alone with the certain decision he had already _made_ , Charles comforts himself into a shell of glass: he won’t change his mind, he won’t hear of the feeling that still echoes pleasantly in his stiff muscles, all that he will deny himself just like that.

Erik with his soft voice breaks down the thickness of the white ice:  
– Can it wait? – he asks.

With his back Charles feels a reproachful gaze on him but knows it isn’t such. Erik looks in a different way: his gaze does not cut, as if in demand, but carefully inspects and it feels like Lehnsher almost _cares_.  
To Charles dry warmth of metal grey eyes feels _wrong_ because the only metal he had ever knew was the damp fear, echoing with the sweet unbearable heaviness on his shoulders – a weight too heavy for him alone, but one that he never thought to share with someone else. Never wanted to.

A shiver ran down his spine, opening the invisible wounds the sun left on his back. Sudden tiredness swarms all over him, makes him blink and look away from the card.  
No ways of retreat anymore, and he is rather surprised by how stubbornly he was trying to stay closed, sheltered, with the victory handed, the white figurines on the board – no more, and himself – lying on the cold metal floor with his hands and legs tied with the cutting strings of red. Not yielding and not ever trusting.

The only thing Charles knows is that it’ll take him a very, very long time to learn to lose properly. And to trust, not doubt, not question.

– Maybe I have already found what I was looking for.  
And Charles is not listening anymore, he is just glad to _hear_ Erik smile with a corner of his mouth at the end of the phrase. He knows.

Getting used to the world around them will take much more time than might at first seem.  
But Erik will understand Charles better than Xavier ever hoped someone to.

**Author's Note:**

> ngl im very glad i've finished this small project of mine  
> to admit whe whole work will have to be additionally proofread by me at some point.
> 
> love all of you, each person reading through all of this means a whole lot to me (◡‿◡✿ )


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